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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23810773">Runaway</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoswellSmokingWoman/pseuds/RoswellSmokingWoman'>RoswellSmokingWoman</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bedelia is Will's Therapist, First Kiss, First Time, Fools in Love, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Love Confessions, M/M, Proposals, Therapy, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, runaway groom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:43:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,324</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23810773</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoswellSmokingWoman/pseuds/RoswellSmokingWoman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Will Graham didn't marry Molly? What if Will goes back to Baltimore, looking to make sense of the past several years with Hannibal? What if Will Graham wants to think about Hannibal, to know where he is, and where he can always find him? </p><p>The one where Will leaves Molly at the alter, knowing exactly what he's getting himself into.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Molly Hooper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>136</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>              The suit on his body feels like a crusty lizard skin, hiding the human underneath. He claws at it, feeling the satin dig in under his nails cruelly. He searches for a reminder of who he is, of the weakness of his soul, whining out in fevered cries of what could be. It doesn’t feel right, standing in front of the mirror, looking at himself. This is not who he is, not a man he’d like to be. Only the man he should be, a ready-made figurine, plasticine clay and gray, plopped out of a disgusting mold. He should crush his soft, malleable self and reform his flesh into something more recognizable.</p><p>There’s laughter down the hall and some drunken chatter. Everyone seems to be happy, overjoyed, except for him. This should be the happiest day of his life, after all. “Will,” a female voice calls out, stomping into the room. The woman is short, sandy blonde hair, nearly the spitting image of Molly except a bit older, her lips thinner and longer. “How’s it coming along?”</p><p>              He laughs, adjusting his tie. <em>Horribly</em>. “Not too bad, I’d like to think.”</p><p>              “The big day—it came so fast! To think you proposed only a few months ago.” She’s laughing, smiling. Will wishes he felt good making her smile like this.</p><p>              Instead, he feels miserable. The church is an oppressive structure that makes it difficult for him to breathe. He wants to push past her, run in his squeaky leather shoes onto the grass outside, hop in the car and just drive. They’d all say it was cold feet—but it’s something far greater. Will isn’t scared of marriage, of eternity with another person. The thought of eternity is a comfort to him, even. It provides an assurance that whoever he would choose, it would be his person. The daunting thought of spending it with someone entirely wrong, however… It makes him nauseated.</p><p>              “I know. Thanks for checking in, Liz.” He doesn’t bother to look at her when she leaves; he can’t bring himself to it—would he find intrusive eyes, digging for his real thoughts? The door clicks shut, bringing a moment of silence into the room. He takes it to close his eyes, to avoid the reflection in the mirror.</p><p>              <em>“The sound of the church organ ringing out, wedding bells reverberating in the air—could anyone think of a sound more joyous?” the accented voice whispers into the air. </em></p><p>
  <em>              He doesn’t expect the cool touch of Hannibal’s hand on the back of his neck. The voice he’d grown used to. A simple auditory hallucination that could be easily tuned out with enough want. Occasionally, the auditory hallucinations would become visual, Hannibal standing beside him. It would feel like old times, the crackle of fire in his office, burned pages of the past at their feet. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>              But never touch. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>              Will opens his eyes, finding Hannibal behind him, eyes consumed with grief. A wedding and a funeral, then. In a way this is the day Hannibal and Will, Will and Hannibal—murder husbands, die. Not with a funeral march, but with Vivaldi and violins. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “Molly wanted a chamber orchestra,” Will breathes. “Their sound is lighter, better for a wedding.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “You didn’t care,” Hannibal notes. “Not one thought of yours went into planning the wedding. You left it to her. You're better with other things. You couldn't so much as look at the reception menu, knowing all of the offerings would be wrong. She chose vegetarian, didn't she? You find that distasteful. Un-celebratory. But this is a big day, for you. One you will look back on when life becomes terribly mundane.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “Is that so?” Will wants to laugh, but instead lets himself be consumed in Hannibal’s embrace, his eyes begging for the man to wrap his arms around him. “Do you think so highly of yourself that you’d suppose you already know my thoughts—past, present, and future?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “Your mind evades me constantly. I would never presume.” Hannibal nuzzles his head into the crook of Will’s neck, smiling at their reflection in the mirror. “It’s so rare to find you dressed up.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “You’re more suited for it. I look like a pauper posing as a prince.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “And what a fine prince you would make.” He presses butterfly kisses into Will’s neck, Hannibal’s breath making the fine hairs stand up on that back of it. “Goosebumps, a reaction formed in the sympathetic nervous system—a fight or flight response. Do I make you anxious?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “The air grows so thick whenever you’re near, but it’s easier to breathe somehow. The irony is maddening,” Will admits, clenching his jaw. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>              It should be him and Hannibal, he thinks to himself, who would spend an eternity together. Forever quarreling, like gods on opposing sides. Hannibal would be Hades, desperately in need of love amid his kingdom of death, and Will Persephone, aching for the darkness but nevertheless a constant source of light, of life. Will cackles at the thought, that perhaps the next six months would be spent without Hannibal and perhaps the six months after he’d be consumed by him. The marriage should make him forget, should distract him from these thoughts. It isn’t enough. He’s already counting the days till his return to the underworld. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “Even weddings are not without worry. Will you fight for your marriage or try to escape?” Hannibal asks then, unprompted.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “I made a promise,” is all that Will can say. He wants to explain himself, to tell Hannibal this is a sham, that it’s only a pitiful attempt at revenge—he is not getting married for himself, for love. Love is reserved for relationships more consuming. Molly does not consume him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “Does she make you happy?” Hannibal sighs, moving away from Will. He turns his back to the other man, unable to face him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “I’m not one for happiness.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “I remember how the laughter escaped your lips whenever you were in my presence. The smiles that spread across your face, even though you tried to hide them. Can she make you do the same, genuinely?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “I laugh plenty. I smile often.” Will clenches his fists at his sides, controlling himself. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “Does she make you look into the world and find beauty even in its most difficult and grotesque corners?” </em>
</p><p><em>              “Molly shines brightest in the light.  And that's what I need, too. A positive guide. A reminder to look at the beautiful things in life and to not ignore them. I've never stopped to smell the roses before. Life is oh so peechy keen.</em>”
</p><p>
<em>                      
                        The words come out of him rasped and worn, as if he'd repeated them in his mind over and over. He'd convinced himself that he wants to live on the bright side of the world, but he never stopped to think why he would constantly feel alive at night, bathed in darkness, alone outside in the woods with the howl of wolves reminding him of a time where he felt like he was a nighttime creature too, red staining his teeth and blood bubbling up in his maw. It was a time where he was not alone, too. But on this side, he is a foreigner posing as a devout national of the good, the sunny, and the cheerful. Who's he kidding, anyway? He's Will Graham. And Molly Hooper, despite it all, wants to see the good of him. She dips her fingers into his empathy and drags out a fragile human instead of the clawed monster. He forgets, willingly, that Hannibal's seen and worshiped both.
</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              Hannibal's shoulders slump over, his heart beating like a drum in Will's ears. The pain becomes amplified between them. It's a question Will's asked himself about Hannibal, too. “Do you think of me, often?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “I try not to.” The words stumble out of his lips clumsily, unexpectedly. But finally, a spoken truth emerges from them. That Hannibal is always in some corner of his mind, but he tries to keep him confined to it. The suffering would be too great, otherwise. "Do you think of me?"</em>
</p><p>
<em>               "I find you in the place we'd spoken of before. In the morning we're bathed in sunlight, and in the night we're drunk off of wine. I teach you Italian. You teach me baser things, but I learn anyway. I am not a very good fisherman, in practice."
</em>
</p><p>
<em>
                        "You cast bait with a horrific ease. Just as you are now. Baiting me, tugging it away inch by inch. You want my feet to guide me out of this church, hypnotized by the lure. I don't have to follow--I'm free to make that choice."
</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “And how does freedom taste, Will?” Hannibal seethes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “Walking among the free tastes bitter. I am not free. I haven't been for a while, now.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “You are free to find happiness,” Hannibal counters.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “My happiness is several states away locked in a cage.” Will shouts at him, rushing towards Hannibal. He wants to hit him, to push him to the ground and pound some sense to him into him, blood on his fists evidence of his understanding--of what Hannibal has done to him, is doing to him now even though he is so far away. The distance between them, no matter how great, would never be sufficient. Hannibal is always with him. Will tries anyway, to deny this. “And that’s where it needs to remain. Why did you come back? Today of all days? Why did you have to come back to me?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “I didn’t come to you, Will.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “I don’t want you, here,” Will sobs. It's true, but also not quite. There's a baser part to him, a feral creature that bends over in submission at the mere thought of Hannibal, begging for forgiveness. It's this part of him that yearns for Hannibal the most.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “But you do,” Hannibal counters, pushing Will to the wall. “I am only a reflection of your mind, nothing more. You placed me here, wanting to chat.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>              He lets out a grunt under Hannibal’s touch, back pinned against the wall. “Go, please.” He closes his eyes, wishing that when he would open them again, he would be left in the room, in the quiet. Where he could live in doubt, with strength in his legs to carry him out of this room and down the aisle to wait for Molly. 
</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “I would be gone already if you wanted me to be.” The truth stings at Will, Hannibal's words potent and sharp. 
</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              Will fights back, charging at Hannibal, wrestling him to the couch, his lips hovering carefully above Hannibal’s. He can almost taste Hannibal’s breath, sweet and tempting. He shouldn’t, he thinks to himself. Legs straddling Hannibal, Will loses himself to the hurried pace of Hannibal’s breath. He lowers his lips over Hannibal’s, the kiss a whisper, as Hannibal disappears. His lips feel cold without him.</em>
</p><p>             Alone, Will collapses onto the couch, staring at the white ceiling, justifying to himself what he is about to do. He readies himself, mentally for the rest of the day. But his body aches for another, his lips desperate for the taste of blood and murder, sticky and sweet like wine on his tongue. “Hannibal,” he whispers, fishing into his pocket to feel the gold band he should hand to the ring bearer. He can’t imagine it on his own finger, heavy like a lead weight. It should grace another’s hand, instead.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>              Calling a cab comes entirely too easily for Will, who dials the phone without a second thought at the sounding of the church bell on the hour which penetrates his mind. The reality of his situation becomes nearly too real, the knowledge of Molly dressed in a white wedding gown weighing heavily on his shoulders like two anvils. Whatever remaining joy within Will is sucked away as he realizes that Hannibal is here, with him, in his mind, always watching. That figment of Hannibal isn’t enough to satisfy the desire within him. To hear his voice again. To feel his touch. For it to be real. The figment would not go away, not today, and not tomorrow after he is already married. Even if there were the slightest chance for Will to lose Hannibal in marrying Molly, he cannot imagine such a life.</p><p>              A life where the thought of Hannibal no longer visits him. In gaining a wife, he would lose his one and only truest friend. A kindred soul who could understand him without question, without disgust. Molly, with her wry humor and bright hopes, is an inadequate replacement for the man who could honor each part of him. He cannot be the man Molly thinks he is. He cannot do this to her. To marry her as someone who he is not, an imposter living in the skin of Will Graham.</p><p>              Dialing the number of the taxi company is over quickly, without a blink. He shoves the phone in his pocket as if doing away with the evidence of a crime and bolts out of the room, holding his breath. Molly’s sister watches as he runs, screaming after him.</p><p>              “<em>It’s only cold feet.”</em></p><p>              It’s funny. His feet had never felt warmer than they do now, running towards what feels like home. The taxi is only seconds late, giving him enough time to turn around and see Molly’s sister watching him, aghast, tears peppering her eyes.</p><p>              “I can’t be who she needs,” Will tells her. “Tell her I wish her happiness.”</p><p>              Will doesn’t wait for her reply, opening the taxi door and shutting it assertively, marking this as his definite decision. “Drive towards Baltimore,” he instructs the driver. “I’ll give you the exact address in a minute.”</p><p> </p><p>             Will takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and folding his hands in his lap, thinking of the day Hannibal went to his knees for him. Surrendering though he could have escaped. Hannibal had become weak for Will, though never faltering in his persistence.</p><p>              This too is a manipulation. Hannibal expects Will to come crawling back, one day. Hannibal would only have to wait. And Will should know better. He does know better. He endures the ride in spite of this, the seconds ticking away too slowly for his liking. The taxi driver peers into his mirror, looking back at Will, cracking an awkward smile.</p><p>              “Cold feet?” he chuckles.</p><p>              There it is again. That phrase.</p><p>              “It’s none of your business,” Will grunts in response.</p><p>              “You’re right. Just making chit-chat.” The driver opens the window, letting the breeze into the car. “I’ll be needing that address soon. We’re almost in the city.”</p><p>              Will bites his lower lip, stalling. He hadn’t entirely decided if this is the appropriate attire to wear to the BSCHI. He’s distinctly over-dressed, while Hannibal would be uncharacteristically underdressed. He can’t imagine him without a suit. Will can’t imagine him behind bars, though Will is the one who had put him there.  Will repeats the address he had memorized years ago, when he had sat in a cell, alone. A place he swore he would never return to, unless forced.</p><p> </p><p>****</p><p> </p><p>              Alana is shocked to find Will in her office, pacing frantically. He twitches as he tries to speak, not succeeding, before returning to his pacing. She knows he should be getting married, having rejected the invitation. She believes in letting the past stay as it should, behind her. Will Graham is a part of that.</p><p>              “You’ll need to tell me what’s going on, or I’ll have to put you in a cell,” Alana jokes, furrowing her brow. “You’re scaring me, Will.”</p><p>              “You didn’t want to come to my wedding,” Will spits out, looking at her for only a second before heading back to the bookshelf. She hadn’t rehauled Chilton’s former office. Each book is the same.</p><p>              Alana purses her lips. “Apparently you didn’t want to be at your own wedding. Or am I wrong about that?”</p><p>              “I’m not one for attachment,” Will manages. “Not the healthy kind at least. Wouldn’t that be your conclusion, as a professional?”</p><p>              Alana sighs, spreading her hand over the curve of her stomach, feeling her child kick. She can’t help but feel pity for him. He is, in a way, still unhinged. Unstable. She sees it on the surface of his skin, glowing bright like a neon sign lit on a pitch-black night. “Is this about Hannibal?”</p><p>             “I can’t get him out of my head,” Will sobs, clutching onto a shelf. The admittance comes out as a whisper, barely a waver in the air.</p><p>              Alana almost doesn’t hear it, but she makes sense of the words. “I can’t let you see him.”</p><p>              “I need closure.”</p><p>              “He isn’t allowed visitors, yet.”</p><p>              “For an old friend?”</p><p>              Alana sighs. “I’ll give you ten minutes, Will. Not a second longer.” The keys jangle as she takes them out of her desk. “But this won’t do you any good.”</p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>              He doesn’t expect to find Hannibal behind a glass cage. He hadn’t read the news stories published after Hannibal’s trial. He couldn’t bare to open their pages, though the temptation was great. The image assaults him head on, without mercy. Hannibal’s back turned, unsuspecting. It only takes seconds for him to turn around, hands tucked into the pockets of his white prison jumpsuit, hair cropped shorter than before.</p><p>              Hannibal smiles slightly at the man standing in front of him, watching intently for any hint of an expression on Will’s face. Instead Will echoes his own, bottomless pit of nothing, a soulless and wistful gaze. Hannibal considers letting the heartbreak peak through, to see the same light glimmer in Will’s eyes. Will approaches the glass, stepping slowly, pressing his hand onto it. Waiting.</p><p>              Hannibal’s hand never comes. He is forced to take it down, to stuff it into his pocket for warmth and comfort. Hannibal steps closer, sniffing at the air, finding the scent of after shave with a ship on the bottle hitting his nose. Familiar. Home.</p><p>              “I’ve never seen you so well dressed. Not even for one of my dinners.”</p><p>              “I’ve never seen you in casual wear,” Will spits back.</p><p>              “I find myself without a tailor.”</p><p>              “A shame that they don’t have haute-couture prison jumpsuits.” Will steps away from the glass, backwards until his back hits the wall.</p><p>              The banter shouldn’t come so easily, he tells himself. The time apart hadn’t wedged a block between them. They resume their relationship as normal, only the thick glass sheet between them. It terrifies him to find his heart racing, nausea building up in his throat. It only means one thing.</p><p>              This visit only confirms one thing.</p><p>              “Should I be saying congratulations?” Hannibal asks, cocking his head.</p><p>              Will shakes his head. “Old habits die hard.”</p><p>              “I am not an addiction, Will. As much as you would like me to be. It would be easier to justify your course of action.”</p><p>              “You’re a poison,” Will utters.</p><p>              He has only a minute more but can’t use the remainder of his time here. He begins to leave the room, closing his eyes. He wishes he could tell Hannibal what he is feeling. That they could be normal and speak normally. But Hannibal is locked away, haughty and satisfied that Will returned to him.</p><p>              “Will—” Hannibal calls after him. “Was it good to see me?”</p><p>              “Good? No.”</p><p>              Will hates to admit to himself that the moment he leaves the room, the door shutting behind him, he regrets leaving at all. That he would prefer to be in the cage with Hannibal. He clenches his jaw, biting back tears. It shouldn’t affect him so much. He knows he shouldn’t feel this way. He wants to get Hannibal out of there.</p><p>              This visit means only one thing.</p><p>              <em>“I love you, Hannibal.”</em></p><p>              He doesn’t admit it to himself, then. He would need time to see that.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>              Will passes his hand over the table as he walks through the hallway, following the blonde-haired woman. The air drapes over them heavily, entering his lungs with a distinct unease. He lets it sink in his lungs and hang under his rib cage before he breathes a staggered breath, Bedelia turning with her eyebrow raised. Judgment clings to her cheekbones—Will realizes this is not a safe space.</p><p>              “You couldn’t resist, could you?” she utters, her voice low. The pacing of her words is almost unnatural as if she plucks each one out of the stratosphere with tentative care.</p><p>              “You linger here, even though he’s always nearby. At least I tried to escape,” Will counters.</p><p>              Without asking, Bedelia pours each of them a glass of wine and motions to the seats. Will imagines Hannibal’s body in his place, leaned back into the chair and staring into the same he eyes looks into now. Bedelia doesn’t want him here, but he knows that she is incapable of fighting off the curiosity.</p><p>              “He is satiated by your inability to stay away. You are enforcing the beast’s bad habits.”</p><p>              “And you, you thought he should be tamed. But you became a silently goading observer, instead. He only flourished under your care.” Will swallows, inhaling the bouquet of the wine. “Have you thought about what you would do, if Hannibal came back here, to take you away again?”</p><p>              “We both know how unlikely it is that Hannibal’s first stop would be my home… Now that he knows you’re not so far away. You’ve made yourself available.” She shows a bit of tooth, deceptively harmless. “Why did you come here, today, Will?”</p><p>              “Your instincts are correct. I’ve already paid a visit to Hannibal. And now, to you.”</p><p>              Bedelia shudders, glancing at the wine in her hand. Her thin lips curl around the glass, leaving a raspberry kiss on its rim. “How was it—seeing him?”</p><p>              Will reaches into his pants pocket, rubbing the ring between his thumb and index fingers. He allows himself to close his eyes, imagining the gold band on steady and strong hands. “Horrible,” he admits. “A reminder of what could have been.”</p><p>              “Had you chosen to run away with him to Florence,” Bedelia finishes. “Does that thought terrify you? Or do you want to live in that possibility instead?”</p><p>              “I’d like to use your services,” Will deflects.</p><p>              “I’ve closed my practice.”</p><p>              “Not for Hannibal,” Will notes, brushing his tongue over his teeth. “And by extension…”</p><p>              “Are you reaffirming or threatening?”</p><p>              “The line between Hannibal and I is blurred,” Will dips the glass of wine back, glugging the liquid down quickly. “I hope you’ll accept.”</p><p>              “Of course.”</p><p>              Will only smiles.</p><p> </p><p>****</p><p> </p><p>              His home in Wolf Trap, Virginia is dusty. The screen door flies back with an eerie creek, his hand brushing over the same handle Hannibal’s must have time and time again. He feels like a spy in his own home, piecing together the clues his past self had left behind. That Will Graham had been a blind man, dog fur still strewn across the parquet, the cabinet still full of half-drunk bottles of whiskey.</p><p>              When the door opens behind him, Will isn’t surprised. “Come to visit me so soon, Jack?”</p><p>              “A little bird told me you came to visit Hannibal,” Jack's voice booms, almost too large for the confines of Will’s home. “What is it that you think you’re doing, Will?”</p><p>              “I need closure.”</p><p>              “It’s your wedding day.”</p><p>              “You declined the invitation,” Will laughs, turning around. His hand lays steady on the opened cabinet door, the amber glow of whiskey reflecting onto the floor. “I’m surprised you remembered the date.”</p><p>              “You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with your former life. I figured the invitation was more your wife’s doing.”</p><p>              Will shakes his head, reaching down for the whiskey that beacons to him. “We’re not married.”</p><p>              “I’m sorry,” Jack breathes, approaching Will’s dining table and setting his hat down onto it.</p><p>              “You’re not.”</p><p>              “You left your fiancée to visit Hannibal Lecter in a mental institution. Do I need to put you there, too?”</p><p>              “For what reason, Jack?”</p><p>              “You’ll give me one.”</p><p>              “Then I better make it more difficult for you to find. I want you to go,” Will spits, pouring the whiskey into a glass. “Don’t come back.”</p><p>              “You can prevent yourself from whatever you’re thinking of doing,” Jack continues. “Whatever relationship you had with Hannibal; it’s changed you. We can help.”</p><p>              “I appreciate the sentiment. But it’s falling on unwilling ears. Take care, Jack.”</p><p> </p><p>****</p><p> </p><p>              Hannibal stares out into the expanse of the room, his blank gaze turning the air cold. Alana watches as he sits still at his desk, palms flat against its surface. It pains her to think about what he could be feeling. She knows he is feeling. His courtship with Will is volatile. She should extinguish the kindling while she is still ahead of the game, preventing any future incident.</p><p>              “Hannibal?” she calls out, her voice echoing.</p><p>              Hannibal looks up at her, his eyes brightening ever so slightly. “Hello, Alana.”</p><p>              “You’re practically glowing. Was your visit from Will really so satisfying?”</p><p>              “You are always listening…” Hannibal stands, tucking his hands behind his back. He walks around the room slowly, his petite nose lifted in the air. “It was unexpected.”</p><p>              “There won’t be any more visits. I thought it courteous to let you know.”</p><p>              “Courtesy has no part in this. You want a reaction. Do is it excite you—this belief that you have control over me? Had I known I would have entertained you a bit more when you were the one in my bed.”</p><p>              Alana clenches her jaw, fury boiling within the pit of her stomach. “I am free to go wherever I choose. You are the one who is standing on the other side of the glass.”</p><p>              “I have my memory palace to let me be wherever I wish to be. Good day, Alana.”</p><p>              “Will won’t come back,” Alana reiterates. “His visitations are strictly prohibited.”</p><p>              A wry smile curls up on Hannibal’s lips as he listens to the sound of her walking away, her heels clicking against the floor.  </p><p>             </p>
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